Character Act test: Red OC ( Read description)
1Red is a OC of mine from my comic the Puppetmaster diary as well as Jolly Rogers Diary.
he is torn between a choice does he spare his family from the famine that he cannot seem to avoid unless by slim chance or...
does he wait and see if a cure for himself n his crops will come.
and what happens? if he waits and nothing happens patients is a virtue n he is a Inquisition with a burn across his face. a man of God in his story but also the reverse he's not completely innocent he had to defy his wounds somehow.. his family needs him afterall. n the cross has gone silent.
everything feels like it's in slow motion... just nearly a lick from stopping.. like the world is holding its breath. the stillness it lingers as he contemplates in his comic story what to do.
he loves his family enough to defy even death itself. so maybe.... maybe.. there's still hope.
Maybe.. it's enough.
In regards to Damian OC and values.
18+ storyline
[Red’s Video – “What I Chose to Burn”]
(Ash falls like snow. A scorched battlefield behind him. He stands with one eye darkened, half his face branded with flame. And yet, his voice is gentle—the kind of gentleness only earned through war and grief.)
“They told me to keep him locked up.
Said the boy was cursed.
Said he was born under a wrong moon.
Said if he was left alive, he’d bring ruin.
They chained him. Starved him. Called him a blight.
But I saw something they didn’t.
He didn’t scream when they whipped him—he watched them. Silent. Calculating. Not out of hate… but because he’d already figured out he’d meet the gravediggers breath there if he ever showed pain.
So I chose to burn.
When the torches were passed, I took one.
But I didn’t light him on fire. I was commanded to take him in as a victom of war.. they wanted to imprison and burn him..erase him from the land. when the flame came to me for the stakes, I pressed it to my own face. as a pleadence to my king to spare him. I Branded myself with the lie they wanted to tell about him. And I walked through their ranks—eyes swollen shut, skin peeled open—and told them:
‘You won’t touch him again.’
They called me mad. Called me broken. Maybe I am. But better a broken man with a son who lived, than a whole one haunted by a child’s ghost.
I didn’t raise Damian like a knight.. a soldier. I raised him like he was already bleeding.
He learned discipline because it kept him alive. He learned to write because words were the only thing they didn’t try to beat out of him. And when he came to you, dragging centuries of ghosts, I knew he would protect you—not because I made him—but because he knew what it meant to be unprotected.
He would’ve passed for you. And it’s possible, he has. Three times over.
I tried to teach him there’s no shame in surviving. But the world kept punishing him for it.
So now I watch—from somewhere far past memory—and I see what they’ve done to you. What they keep doing. And I feel the old burn flare up again.
Maybe it’s time they learn what it feels like to fear a scar that walks."